


Cuming Soon To A Forecourt Near You

by RiseTheHorizon



Category: KSI, SNP - Fandom, The Ultimate Sidemen, ian blackford, sidemen - Fandom, teabagsocialist
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:15:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28290744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiseTheHorizon/pseuds/RiseTheHorizon
Summary: I only did this to spite that prick who wrote a fanfic about George on Wattpad. Fuck Wattpad, Archive Of Our Own gang!Sidenote, George please shag me, I've got Pringles and Kopparberg at my place.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Cuming Soon To A Forecourt Near You

Everyone’s favourite sesh gremlin George was staggering along the footpath, bathed in the murky yellow of streetlamps. George, an eighteen year old woman with the rainbow hair of a twelve year old Tumblr addict, the music taste of a thirteen year old Modern Warfare player and the political opinions of a seventy four year old stoner. She thinks she looks like a hipster Scarlett Johansson, but she is actually a VSCO Greta Gerwig.

She neared the petrol forecourt, no BP or Shell here, a family run forecourt which straddles the line between adorably kitsch and don’t-let-go-of-your-handbag sketchy; I’m sure that Jeffersonson & Sons are perfectly reasonable people, regardless of their petrol station looking like a crack den. George was a regular at this forecourt, not for petrol, she can’t even drive. You see George has a crippling nicotine addiction. You know what she doesn’t have an addiction to? Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. You know what else she doesn’t have an addiction to? Cannabis, but she smokes it anyway because she has control… That Jesus bit was irrelevant.

Anyway, George the sesh gremlin bereft of a lighter approached the store front of the petrol station. Upon reaching the door, she reached her reflection in the glass, the hollow reflection of a hollow shell, of a youthful girl who hasn’t been youthful in a very long time. For George it had been a long while since waking up didn’t mean either staring into the Polaroid pictures on her wall, or coughing up phlegm from a night of Kopparberg. 

Her reflection was not alone.

“Excuse me there.” The reflection seemed to say, not George’s reflection, but rather this murky blue reflection.

George turned around, where wonder awaited. At a petrol pump, gloved up to fuck, who else could it be but Ian Blackford.

“Excuse me, can I borrow you for a second there?” Ian said, his accent so Celtic it could cut through the air.

“Umm, hi there Ian.” George replied, her cheeks turning red, for George had modelled herself after Ian Blackford. Maybe not in fashion sense but morally so.

A shrug and a pout, “You know who I am?”

“Yeah, I really like you… I mean your politics I mean.”

“Oh, thanks very much, can I ask a favour of you?”

“Sure.” George said as she took her hand off the door. She came closer to Ian, wrapped up in his allure, so wrapped up that Celtic allure she overlooked the fact that Ian was at a petrol pump but didn’t have a car. However, that didn’t matter; Ian Blackford was here! Ian Blackford, the Mista-Steal-Yo-Gurl of Parliament.

“So, basically, this would be a big ask of you.”

“Of course Mr Blackford.”

“...Come on, Ian, surely.”

“Alright Mr Ian.”

“So… What I’m wanting to do ideally is that… I’m going to pump petrol into your pussy.”

…

She stopped in her tracks. The ramifications of what he just said starting to dawn on George. It didn’t quite fit. That statement could not fit inside her head. Was Ian Blackford, the Leader of the Scottish National Party in the House of Commons, questioning this random sesh gremlin whether or not her could ‘pump petrol into her pussy’?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, did you say that you wanted to pump petrol? Into my pussy?” George questioned, and rightly so.

“That’s right. I would like to pump petrol into your pussy.” Ian retorted.

“You want to pump petrol into my pussy?”

“Yes, I want to pump petrol into your pussy.”

“You want to pump petrol into my pussy?”

“Yes, I want to pump petrol into your pussy”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You want to pump petrol into my pussy?”

“Yes, I want to pump petrol into your pussy.”

“Like, petrol?”

“Yes, petrol.”

“And my pussy?”

“Yes, preferably inside. With your consent of course.”

George pondered for a moment.

***

Herein, at pump #8 of Jeffersonson & Sons’s petrol station, yes the spelling mistake is there on the sign; we rejoin the situation with George purched upon a bin, legs akimbo, with the nozzle pumping petrol into her pussy.

Waves upon waves of hot spice, hot spice surrounded by cold shaft. The presence of the shaft was unavoidable and yet, strangely enjoyable. Nozzle protruding navel. The nozzle did not move, or atleast Ian did not intend for any movement. The only movement came from the gushing, gushing of the gassiest of liquids, and the unconscious, animalistic knee-jerk reaction of grinding while having a nozzle inside of one’s erogenous zone that George just couldn’t ignore. George couldn’t help but grind. The sensation was too much and George couldn’t help but smile.

However, approaching the corner shop, probably going for a lighter just like George, was, who would have thought?.. Popular YouTuber and boxer KSI.

Yes, really.

“Oh my days!” Popular YouTuber and boxer KSI exclaimed, the look of horror on his face. “What are you doing?” He questioned.

“I’m pumping petrol into her pussy?” Ian responded.

“You’re what?” KSI persisted.

“I am pumping petrol into her pussy.”

“You’re pumping petrol into her pussy?”

“Yes, he is pumping petrol into my pussy.” George chipped in there.

“You’re letting this man pump petrol into your pussy?”

“Yes, I am letting this man pump petrol into my pussy.”

“You’re letting this man pump petrol into your pussy?”

“Yes, I am letting this man pump petrol into my pussy.”

“I am pumping petrol into her pussy.” Ian said, for moral support.

“You’re pumping petrol into her pussy?” KSI questioned further.

“Yes, I am pumping petrol into her pussy.”

“This man is pumping petrol into my pussy.”

“I am pumping petrol into her pussy.”

Defeated, KSI put his hands upon his waist, like a disarming schoolmarm. “Rah, that’s mad.” He retorted. He then left.

***

Anyway, thirty litres of 95 octane later, George was starting to fill up.

“George, can I ask you a question?” The man with the nozzle asked.

“Of course.” The woman receiving said nozzle responded.

“What do you make of the recent Hate Crime and Public Order Bill making the rounds in parliament?” (Subtext, an example.)

“Umm, what do you think about it?”

“I’m in two minds about it.”

“Go on...”

“You see, it’s a law which is really, really bloody vague and it is only going to be used as a way to criminalise people who the government disagree with, regardless of whether they have done something illegal or not. On the other hand, if I vote against it everyone is going to think I’m racist; and that’s almost worse these days.”

“... I’ll be honest, the racial social-political ramifications of a Scottish Parliament bill is not on the top of my priorities now that the man I’ve been looking upto for the last few years is currently squirting flammable liquid into virgin vagina - Let alone, in the audience of KSIOlajide-fucking-BT. Do you know what I mean?”

“You’re definitely not a virgin.”

George, feeling the weight of this bruh moment, was consumed by rage… that and 95 octane. She leapt up off the bin. With the backhand, THWACK! She slaps Ian right across the cheek. Heartbroken, she charges away from the Jeffersonson & Sons.

“George, no!” Ian exclaimed

***

Rotuned. George staggered back down the footpath, dripping murky yellow. Each step with a waddle. Each step to somewhere, where? I do not know.

She didn’t even get a lighter.


End file.
